Small Note
by My name's AC
Summary: Sherlock said it'd be easy for someone to attempt against Lestrade's life. If someone tried to? He was threatened with small notes, and yet, when he's at the hospital, he gets one little note that cheers him. A note from the only one who didn't visit him.. the consulting detective.


**After rewatching "The Signs of Three" I couldn't help but to wonder what would be if anyone attempted to kill Lestrade.**

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><p>With the tip of his index finger he scraped the place where the bullet had hit him. Not a smart thing to do, he thought with himself as he groaned and adjusted in bed.<p>

He could still remember the feeling of the metal chunk burning in his chest. He didn't realize it at first he had been shot, meaning for the first couple of seconds. He saw the bullet exiting through the barrel and breaking the air around him as it flew right to his chest where it comfortably lodged. He held his breathe. Something had just cut through his skin and muscle. And then the blood gushed out very slowly, thick, hot. And then the pain kicked in.

It felt as if someone had punched him in the guts and was constantly poking him with a very sharp javelin, always in the same spot. Soon the pain migrated to the muscles around; the blood was now more fluid but hotter than before, slipping through his fingers. It became harder to breathe, his legs trembled and he fell forward on his knees. His hand was pressuring the wound. He wanted to mouth out any word but he couldn't. His heart was climbing to his throat, knotting it tightly. Everything is blurry by now, there are no clear sounds, just a cacophony, nothing made sense.

And then he fell on his side, abruptly. He could emit some sounds, but that's what they just were. Sounds. Groans, moans of pain, attempts to verbalize any word; any word at all. His head was tossing thoughts until he felt something. Or better yet, he stopped feeling something. His heart. It did not beat anymore. His eyelids felt heavy, blinking and keeping the eyes open was now a hard task. He knew his consciousness was slipping away as he faintly felt people ripping his shirt open, slapping his face.

The EMT's had arrived. They were supplying him with oxygen, attempting to stanch the blood, checking on his vitals, carefully confining him on the stretcher to rush him to the hospital. As the time passed, pain strangely became easier to bear but being awake was getting harder. Every time he blinked, there was only darkness, compelling him to let go and just dive in. To calmly dive into the nothing. After that he had no more memories.

Right now there's no more pain. He's heavily medicated. One would not expect any less; being shot an inch away from the heart is far from being a thrilling adventure.

Mycroft was the first to visit him after everyone else. Nobody ever suspected he was even there to start with. He told him that the reason why he didn't have any memories was because he fell into shock and nearly died in the operation table. The doctors, however, were very skilled in bringing him back. Mycroft didn't stay for too long and left as discreet as he entered.

John and Mary came to visit too. John was very much concerned about him and seemed to let out a relieved breathing when he saw he was alright. He apologized for not having handled better his hostage situation. He said he and Sherlock watched from the outside him being taken to the hospital. Donovan came by to pay her boss a visit. She poked fun of him for a while and after wishing him a speedy recovering she left.

Pretty much everyone had come by to visit him, except one person.

A nurse walked in and gave him a note that had been left for him. He frowned. That's how he got shot in the first place, because of some little notes.

_I am… uhm… sorry?... for not having found you earlier. And for believing he'd not pull the trigger and shoot you in the chest._

_Come soon, Greg (yes, I've always knew your first name, I just wanted to see how many names you'd let me call you before punching me), because you are apparently the only competent Inspector in the Scotland Yard. The others are boring and don't let me access interdicted places. _

_Honestly, come soon, they are driving me insane._

_S.H_

Lestrade chuckled and realize perhaps laughing wouldn't be the best thing to do at the moment as it ached his chest. Still he smiled, he felt useful. He always hated and envied that bastard, but hell, he admired him.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always nice! ^_<strong>


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